


To Kill a Servant

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Blood, Enchantment, Gen, Gore, Violence, Whump, alternate endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is enchanted to kill Merlin because hunting trips always go wrong. Includes three alternate endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Story:

King Arthur Pendragon might have known something would go terribly wrong. Wasn’t that the way of things, it seemed?

He struggled with all his might against the hooded sorcerer, but ‘twas in vain, for those evil eyes glowed at him from the shadows beneath that travel-worn cloth, making even the sunshine surrounding them seem sinister. Some invisible cord wrapped itself around Arthur’s neck, choking off the air vital to his persistence. Then it was gone, after only one fleeting moment in which Arthur thought he would face his doom, and the young man sucked in a grateful gasp of crisp autumn fragrance. Almost as quickly as the figure had appeared from between the looming trees, huskily whispering words of ancient power which Arthur found he could not resist, he was gone in a flash like lightning. Arthur was left standing alone, flabbergasted and dizzy. His hand did not even twitch toward the sword sheathed at his hip.

Despite his confusion at the abrupt departure, Arthur’s shoulders slightly sagged in relief. He did not seem to be harmed. Still, he could not help but to wonder what—

Suddenly Arthur was moving, turning and walking back towards the camp which Merlin was setting up while the king scouted the perimeter. Leaves crunched loudly beneath his boots, but as he neared the clearing his steps slowed and quieted so that no sound could be heard.

For a long moment the king was stunned.

He was quite sure that he was not the one moving his body, that he was not sneaking up on _Merlin_ , of all people. And for what? He could not comprehend it.

The strange behavior of that sorcerer returned to the fore of his mind. Obviously he was under his control. He would have to find some way of warning Merlin. The servant would take both the horses, on Arthur’s orders, and inform the Roundtable Knights of his predicament. They, of course, would come fetch and restrain him, for safety purposes, and return to Camelot in the hopes that Gaius would have a cure-all as he so often did.

The king opened his mouth to call out for his servant, but no sound issued forth. Furthermore, his jaw remained set as it was—not so much a twitch of his lip occurred. This complicated matters, certainly. Frustrated, Arthur continued to make attempts at communication and at moving his own limbs. He accomplished neither.

At last he reached the edge of the clearing. Through the trees Arthur could see the two horses grazing peacefully, tethered to a low-hanging branch. A small fire was going already, and Merlin had started their supper.

But there would be no supper if Arthur remained enchanted as he was.

His feet paused, eyes roaming. Ah, there he was.

Merlin was returning from the stream that was a short ways from the camp Arthur had chosen. Over one shoulder he was lugging their newly-filled water skins, and in his other hand dangled a field dressed rabbit. For all Merlin’s complaining about hunting, he never once turned down good meat.

The thought made Arthur want to roll his eyes, but then he remembered that he was not in control of himself. His mood darkened once more.

His servant by then had reached the fire and knelt beside it, laying the skins aside for the moment. Then he set to work sawing up the rabbit to put in the stew he was cooking. Finally, Arthur began to move again.

Much to his confusion, though, he did not move toward the horses. Rather, he seemed to be making directly toward the young man who was diligently preparing their evening meal. Alarm bells clanged in Arthur’s head, and he fervently renewed his efforts to regain control. Still nothing happened; his fighting was in vain.

But luck seemed to be on his side, for once.

A twig snapped beneath his heel, and Merlin whipped around, warily clutching his knife. But, to Arthur’s chagrin, he only relaxed when he saw that it was his master.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you return,” he grinned, turning back to the stew. “Dinner should be ready quite soon, Sire.”

Arthur was dismayed. Merlin, the idiot, did not realize anything was wrong. Did he not see the impassiveness of his face, the tension in his shoulders, notice the lack of response? Arthur—no, Arthur’s _body_ —moved closer and stopped at the servant’s side.

Merlin was obviously aware of him, but paid no heed. Perhaps he thought that Arthur was hungrily overlooking his progress.

The king wracked his mind for an answer, for any possibility for the sorcerer’s reason to approach Merlin rather than return to Camelot immediately. Certainly the sorcerer would want to go to Camelot, to destroy it at his first chance. Perhaps the sorcerer planned to act as though all was normal for the time being, and then strike when the city least expected it—of course, no one would expect it at all from their king.

Merlin finished cutting the meat from the bones of the rabbit and laid the utensil aside. “Right,” he said cheerily, gathering up the bones to toss out into the woods, “I’ll just—“

Whatever he might have said was cut off abruptly by Arthur’s boot to his ribs, which sent him sprawling into the bed of leaves that blanketed the ground. He lay there stunned for a moment, then angrily turned to the king. Arthur was horribly appalled.

No one but a foreigner, and one who’d never heard of him at that, would ever consider this to be _normal_ behavior for the king of Camelot. Arthur sickeningly realized that the sorcerer wanted something much more sinister.

The servant had opened his mouth, probably to insult Arthur, but he had reverted to a frown. He had finally realized that something was wrong. It was about time!

“Arthur?”

He tried to fight it, he really did, but Arthur had no control over himself. He moved toward Merlin, raising his foot to kick him once more. Merlin swiftly rolled out of the way—nearly causing Arthur to slip and fall—and scrambled to his feet, putting some distance between them. The servant was staring at him in confusion, eyes darting over Arthur’s figure as though to find the source of his irrationality. Arthur knew that the only indication of it was his impassive expression.

“Hold on,” Merlin said, raising his hands up in a placating gesture with wide eyes. “Arthur, you’re enchanted.” He took a wary step back for every one that Arthur took forward. “You’ve got to fight it, Arthur!”

“You don’t say, _Mer_ lin?” accompanied with a sarcastic roll of his eyes is what Arthur wanted to say, but unfortunately there was the rather pressing matter of his being unable to regain the control to do it. Still, for once, he did as his servant asked and struggled against the blasted magic that held him. He’d all but forgotten to ascertain the sorcerer’s strategy, his plan of attack.

Merlin continued to stumble back, encouraging Arthur to fight and assuring him that he knew Arthur was in there. It brought little comfort and nothing useful to the king, however, so he tuned the servant out so that he might focus.

A startled cry returned him to the scene: Merlin, of course, had clumsily tripped and landed hard on his backside. Arthur advanced quickly, stiffly, and grasped the servant by his unruly hair. He yanked upwards—unwillingly of course, but with great strength nevertheless. Merlin howled and twisted in Arthur’s grip, fingers scrabbling at Arthur’s hand. The king was relieved to know that he could still feel pain, that his body automatically recoiled from it—for he released the servant, clenching the hand into a fist as though to stay the pain from the bleeding scratches.

Merlin scurried back to his feet and turned to run, realizing that he was no match and that his words were not getting through to the king, but Arthur was suddenly upon him. The young man struggled valiantly, but Arthur was much bigger and stronger, and so easily overpowered him.

Much to the king’s horror, he landed a hard hit to Merlin’s jaw that bruised his own knuckles. It was more than enough to knock the slighter man to the ground and stun him for a long moment. Arthur’s body dropped to its knees beside Merlin, who was disoriented and fighting to get his bearings. The controlled king did not give him enough time to do so.

Arthur repeatedly drove his fist into Merlin’s ribs and back, and his face when he could reach it, holding him fast by the nape of his neck with his other hand. He was horrified at the turn of events, at Merlin’s cries and gasps that cut him like a knife. But no matter how hard he tried, how fervently he prayed and silently apologized, the assault did not stop until Merlin gathered enough wits and strength to twist around and lash out, catching Arthur between his legs. Winded, the king ceased his attack, and it afforded Merlin enough time to stagger out of reach. His progress was too slow, though, because Merlin’s body was so wracked with pain that he could hardly see straight, let alone escape.

Blood gushed from his split lip, trickling down his chin and neck. This, coupled with the already forming bruises beneath his eyes and along his jaw, made his pale skin seem all the starker. Damage caused by Arthur’s incompetence in the matters of protection against the evil forces of magic.

The king recovered rather swiftly—for all its success it had been a weak blow.

His hand grasped the hilt of _Excalibur_. Arthur desperately tried to shout out a warning, but still he had no voice. It seemed, however, that none was needed, because when Merlin heard the sound of the sword unsheathing he halted and looked over his shoulder, brow furrowed both with pain and some other unreadable emotion that Arthur thought could be anger. There was no time to worry about Merlin’s feelings. Arthur could feel the familiar tensing in his muscles as he prepared to run his best friend through.

Merlin stumbled forward and latched onto a tree trunk to balance himself. He leaned heavily against it, clinging to the rough bark as though he were hanging over the edge of a sheer precipice. The king, sword raised high, advanced swiftly.

At the last moment, though, Merlin released the tree and dropped to the ground with a grunt. With no time to change course, Arthur rammed the point of _Excalibur_ into the wood where the servant had been only a second before, embedding it a half an inch. He involuntarily pulled it free, but suddenly found himself sickeningly off balance, crashing backwards like felled timber. Merlin had jerked Arthur’s feet out from under him. Arthur’s grip on the sword had gone lax, giving Merlin the perfect opportunity to take away the weapon and to use it for defense.

Arthur inwardly cheered as Merlin once more put space between them, this time holding the sword aloft. He had no doubt that Merlin would not use it on him, but he hoped that the sorcerer could somehow see or sense what was happening and so spare the pair any further pain, so long as Merlin had the—

Merlin suddenly flung the sword forged in dragon’s breath away, out of both of their reaches. Arthur could have spit fire, he was so frustrated. His body had already risen from the forest floor, dry leaves clinging to the fabric of his red cloak and making themselves at home in the silver ringlets of his mail coat. The servant was retreating into the forest, possibly hoping to lose his assailant in the trees.

For a moment Arthur thought that his friend might escape, hoped that perhaps his will to not hurt him was hindering the sorcerer’s control over his body. It certainly seemed so.

One of the horses on the other side of the camp, Merlin’s, whinnied in distress, perhaps voicing her objections to her master’s treatment. Of course the servant hesitated, looking over to ascertain whether his beloved old mare was in danger. It afforded Arthur’s constrained body just enough time to reach him.

Seeing that his horse was in no peril, Merlin turned to continue his laborious escape. But Arthur was already upon him, strong hands grasping that ridiculous red neckerchief of his. With all the strength he possessed, the young king catapulted the servant back towards the openness of the clearing.

Merlin crashed face-first into the leaves, landing in a tangled heap of gangly limbs. An instant later he was pushing himself up desperately, spluttering and gasping. Arthur’s legs moved of their own accord, still, despite all Arthur’s prayers and efforts against it. Before Merlin had even gotten his feet solidly under him, Arthur once more grasped him by his short jetty locks and pulled. The younger jerked away, wincing as he left a handful of hair with his master, and overbalanced.

He fell, and stuck out a hand to catch himself—and plunged the appendage into the famishing flames of the neglected fire. The logs stirred and released a plume of burning ash that cooled and floated down like snow, oddly peaceful amidst the horrifying situation. With a cry stifled by adrenaline, Merlin yanked his hand back out and cradled it to his chest. In that split second Arthur could see the hot white ashes that coated the skin of Merlin’s hand, the singed shirt and jacket sleeve. But Merlin did not waste a single moment to dwell on the excruciating pain he felt. He scrambled yet again to clumsy his feet and made for the trees, this time to the other side of the camp, from where Arthur had returned only moments before.

For a moment Arthur thought that perhaps the sorcerer was going to allow Merlin’s escape. His body did not give chase, but instead crossed over to the forgotten hunting packs a few feet from the fire. Belatedly he realized that his hopes were fruitless, for his unshaking hands grasped the very same crossbow that he’d used to shoot their dinner. In a single fluid movement borne from years of practice, Arthur loaded the bow with a bolt sharpened to deadliness.

The king’s heart thudded with terror, and he tried to open his mouth in a warning cry as his body spun to take aim at his beloved servant. Merlin, by then, had finally reached the tree line, using the trunk of the one closest to him for balance and to propel himself forward.

Arthur could do nothing as his treacherous finger triggered the weapon.

The bolt whistled as it cut through the heavy air, and stopped all too suddenly as it lodged itself into Merlin’s calf. The servant went down with a cry of agony, the fingers of his good hand clawing into the ground. But he continued on, this time crawling awkwardly with his burned arm curled around his ribcage.

King Arthur approached, outwardly somber and inwardly screaming, crossbow hanging at his side in a loose grip. Merlin, hearing his steady steps, tried to push himself to his feet again. But his injured leg would bear no weight, and he fell once more to his hands and knees. The king at last reached him, and bent to retrieve the bolt.

The rough removal of the piercing elicited a strangled cry from Merlin, and though the sound tore at Arthur’s bleeding soul, he could do nothing still. The bloodied bolt was reloaded into the bow. As the king had prepared this, Merlin dragged himself to a tree, and then painstakingly propped himself into a sitting position against it.

Merlin had given up.

It was clear to Arthur that Merlin could resist no further. His entire frame was shivering, his pale skin whiter than ever—with pain, fear, and exhaustion; raven locks stuck up every which way, made worse than ever by Arthur’s cruel hand; his hand was curled lightly across his stomach, blisters rising grotesquely from the burnt red flesh. But his visage was oddly calm, despite the blood and bruises that smattered it.

Arthur could have sworn that he felt hot tears slipping down his cheeks as he unwillingly took direct aim at Merlin’s heart.

“Arthur…” Merlin breathed. In that single word, his name, Arthur could hear Merlin’s thoughts: it was a final plea for clemency, but also it was an exoneration. Merlin did not blame Arthur.

Arthur struggled harder than he ever had before against the damned spell that held him, desperately trying to spare the life of his dearest friend. His finger inched slowly, steadily, toward the trigger. Arthur resisted, willed himself to avert his aim, to remove his finger, _anything_ , so that this monstrosity did not occur. He prayed. He cursed. He offered the devil his soul.

But it was over before Arthur could even blink.


	2. Chapter 2

Ending 1:

Arthur struggled harder than he ever had before against the damned spell that held him, desperately trying to spare the life of his dearest friend. His finger inched slowly, steadily, toward the trigger. Arthur resisted, willed himself to avert his aim, to remove his finger, _anything_ , so that this monstrosity did not occur. He prayed. He cursed. He offered the devil his soul.

But it was over before Arthur could even blink.

The weapon discharged, speeding straight for Merlin’s heart— _but it rebounded_ off a shimmering gold shield. If Arthur had had any control over himself he would have gaped. But it seemed that Arthur would be given that freedom, for with another flash of gold in his eyes, Merlin released the enchantment that bound him.

Arthur stumbled back, relieved to have his limbs again, but utterly shocked. Rather than lowering the crossbow, he more firmly adjusted his aim. Merlin did not seem to pay any attention to this. For a moment the servant sat where he was, breathing heavily, eyes scrunched shut. But then he slumped to one side. The king regarded him, refusing to lower the weapon in case it was some trick. But Merlin did not move.

A dizzying maelstrom of thoughts spun in Arthur’s head. He couldn’t decide whether to be relieved, to be angry, or even to be frightened. The king settled on a confused mixture of the three.

Why had Merlin waited so long to protect himself with that magic? Or was that magic even _his_?—It could be some trap, some illusion, devised by that malicious sorcerer. But what was the _point_? Nothing this sorcerer had done made any sense! He could have easily killed him, killed Merlin; he could have easily taken control of Arthur so as to capture Camelot. But no.

There was no _sense_ in it.

Arthur lowered the crossbow, feeling ridiculous. There was no feasibility that _Merlin_ had _magic._ The words didn’t belong together. It was the sorcerer’s trick, surely. Rather than _forcing_ Arthur to kill his best friend, he was trying to trick him into willingly doing so. The king would have known if his servant practiced magic. They’d spent years together, after all. Arthur would have known.

He shoved the image of blue turning to gold to the back of his mind, shuddering. There was no need to dwell on such a nightmare. Merlin hadn’t even raised his hand to conjure the shield. Sorcerers always directed their hand toward the object of their spell. Merlin didn’t have magic.

Satisfied that he’d arrived at a logical conclusion, Arthur quickly went to his friend’s aid, sure to keep the bow close at hand in case the sorcerer decided to make a reappearance. Merlin groaned weakly as Arthur shook him back to wakefulness. He felt bad for his coarse treatment in the wake of what had happened, but he was certain that Gaius had said a severely injured person should not be allowed to sleep.

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur said urgently, casting a fervent gaze about. “Wake up, you dolt.”

“Pra…t…”

In any other situation the king would have found it hard not to laugh, but at the moment things were quite serious. He and Merlin needed to get back to Camelot immediately, where it was safe. Arthur’s lips thinned and his brow furrowed, realizing that Merlin was not going to—or, more likely, wasn’t _able_ to—cooperate.

“You’re _such_ a girl’s petticoat,” Arthur griped, but his heart wasn’t in it. His heart, as a matter of fact, was thundering hard in his chest, both out of grief and fear—grief for his friend’s pain, and fear for the sorcerer’s return. Casting another glance around, he set down the weapon and quickly hoisted Merlin onto his shoulder. Merlin mewled at the harshness of the sudden movement, despite Arthur’s attempt to be gentle.

He snatched up the crossbow and hurried to the horses, back slightly bent under Merlin’s weight. There was no time to dress Merlin’s wounds or even to put out the dwindling fire. Their water skins would be left behind, as well as their pots and most of the hunting gear. Those were easily replaceable; Merlin was not—despite all Arthur’s claims to the contrary.

Arthur slung Merlin over the saddle of his own horse, not trusting his dear friend to stay on his own. Paranoid, he looked over his shoulder as he untethered the mares. Though he saw no apparent danger his senses were abuzz, and the young king quickly mounted behind Merlin’s limp form and kicked his horse into motion. Merlin’s mare he led by her reigns.

The ride was hard, and it was with no small amount of relief that Arthur spied the white turrets of the castle rising above the green trees. Merlin had, throughout the journey, remained somewhere between unconsciousness and the waking world. Occasionally he voiced his pain, keening and groaning after a particular jolt, but Arthur could not bring himself to stop until they reached the gates of the city.

“We’re home,” Arthur breathed. “We’re safe.”

Merlin did not comment.

He ordered one of the posted guards ahead of them to inform Gaius that his services were needed immediately, and another to tell the queen that he was not to meet her on the garden terrace as planned, and then to gather his Roundtable Knights in the council room. Arthur relinquished Merlin’s mare to a stable hand, but rode his into the courtyard as fast as he dared. Peasants scrambled out of the way in alarm, openly staring after the horseback duo.

Arthur dismounted at the base of the castle steps, and carried Merlin up the tower steps to Gaius’ chambers himself. He was huffing and puffing by the time of his arrival.

The guard had reached his destination only a moment before the king, so Gaius was rushing about, clearing the patient bed and gathering some supplies, already giving the soldier more orders: “Go and fetch some water—from the kitchens, of course! It’s closer.” The young man hurried to do his bidding, flustered enough to bow respectfully both to the old physician and to the king, who pushed past him to gently lay Merlin on the cot.

Gaius looked up, brow furrowed in alarm. “What’s happened?” he exclaimed, immediately going to his surrogate son’s side and taking in the damage. He opened both of Merlin’s eyes to check for signs of internal injuries. The boy’s pupils were of different diameters.

Arthur collapsed onto a stool, struggling to catch his breath and to find the words to explain. How could he tell Gaius that ‘twas _he_ who had done it? He had been enchanted, but it was still…his fault.

“I…He,” he stuttered, unable to meet the old man’s level gaze. He instead lowered his eyes to Merlin’s form. “Sorcerer,” he blurted quite eloquently, choosing a word that ought to explain everything.

Gaius regarded him solemnly, eyebrow arching. “I see,” he murmured, also lowering his gaze. “And what will you do with him, Sire?”

“Execute him, of course!” Arthur asserted the obvious. “Gaius, I would never allow that _bastard_ to get away with this.” He ran a thumb over his bloodied knuckles, sorrow forming a thick lump in his throat.

The old physician lifted his chin, a sad look overcoming his features. Before he could say anything more, however, Arthur spoke: “Gaius, I must entrust Merlin’s care to you. I have gathered the knights in the council room to form a hunting party to find that damned sorcerer who has caused this.” With that, he swept regally out of the room, leaving the physician momentarily flabbergasted. A small sound from Merlin quickly transferred his attention, however, and he began his ministrations to his injured ward. He would have to ask after the details later.

King Arthur rapidly descended the winding staircase, footsteps echoing around him, intent on reaching the council chambers in as timely a manner as possible. His men had most likely all been gathered by then. It was important that they head out immediately, to catch the sorcerer. Of course, Arthur was well aware that the sorcerer had certainly had far too long of a head-start. He’d vanished in a flash of lightning once the spell had been completed, so he could be anywhere in the world at the moment. But it would not stop him from trying. Merlin deserved that much, at least.

His most trusted knights were indeed awaiting his presence, Gwaine and Elyan speaking between themselves. They silenced at his appearance, standing attentively alongside Sirs Percival and Leon. Merlin’s absence, it was obvious, was immediately noticed, but did not yet cause alarm.

The calm did not last.

Once Arthur had tersely explained Merlin’s condition and the cause of it—the sorcerer’s enchantment—there was an outcry, particularly from Gwaine. The king had to shout to be heard over him and Elyan, the more passionate of his knights, and directed them to gather their gear and horses. “We’ve a witch hunt on our hands,” Arthur announced.

“Aye,” agreed Gwaine aggressively, moving before they had been dismissed. “Let’s go, Princess!”

Arthur decided to let that compounded insult slide. Just that once.


	3. Chapter 3

Ending 2:

Arthur struggled harder than he ever had before against the damned spell that held him, desperately trying to spare the life of his dearest friend. His finger inched slowly, steadily, toward the trigger. Arthur resisted, willed himself to avert his aim, to remove his finger, _anything_ , so that this monstrosity did not occur. He prayed. He cursed. He offered the devil his soul.

But it was over before Arthur could even blink.

_Thwack!_

Merlin choked, muscles stiffening. His hand clutched toward his heaving chest, blue eyes wide with terror. Arthur dropped the bow and stumbled back with a horrified cry himself, landing hard on his backside. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second, then diverted to the bolt that had struck the tree—inches from Merlin’s shoulder.

It had not been more than an act of sheer will, of desperation, that had caused Arthur’s arm to spasm, upsetting the deadly aim. Apparently, somehow, the young king had broken the spell with it. Perhaps the spell had merely worn off, or the sorcerer had sorely underestimated his strength.

The servant managed a grateful, prideful smile for Arthur, albeit a weak one. “Knew you could…” he breathed.

Arthur stared at him, legs trembling like a newborn colt’s. “Shut up, _Mer_ lin,” he said reflexively, but a giddy smile appeared nonetheless. The young king kicked the discarded weapon out of the way and propelled himself forward, wrapping his strong arms around Merlin in a rare, brotherly embrace. Merlin winced at the pain, but to his credit did not complain.

After a moment in which Arthur swallowed back his unmanly tears, he released Merlin and frowned, observing with a clearer eye the damage he had caused him. He grimaced with sympathy, a lump of guilt forming in throat. Merlin seemed to sense this, for he said solemnly, “S’not your fault, Arthur.”

The king nodded curtly, euphoria dispersed. “Come, we must return to Camelot,” he announced. Using Merlin’s good arm, he pulled the slighter man to his feet, but seeing how he swayed decided against having him walk—well, limp—to the horses. Arthur scooped a still shivering Merlin into his arms, drawing a cry half of protest and half of pain, which he blatantly ignored. Gaius would soon remedy him anyway, and it was imperative that they reach him as soon as possible. If their speedy return meant a little more suffering for his friend, it was worth it, and he was sure that Merlin would agree.

It was all too plain to Arthur that the sorcerer might return at any moment to apprehend them again, or to kill them both. Or worse, possess Arthur once more. He would not allow it to happen, not again.

Most of their supplies were left behind, but even Merlin did not speak up. Whether he did not dare to due to the stony expression on his master’s face that belied anger and fear or because he was exhausted and cold Arthur knew not, but he did not look too far into it in any event. He was in a hurry.

“Hold on,” he instructed, directing Merlin’s uninjured hand to the fore of his saddle after having gotten him situated atop his mount. The young man slouched in the seat, pale and trembling, burnt hand crossed tenderly over his midsection. Arthur spared just a moment to unbuckle his cloak and wrap it helter-skelter around Merlin’s shoulders, then mounted his own mare.

He turned to Merlin and frowned, pointing a commanding finger, “Don’t you dare fall off, _Mer_ lin! If you do, I shall not stop.”

Merlin grinned weakly and nodded shortly, swallowing thickly. The king noted that his grip tightened slightly on the saddle, and with an approving nod he kicked his horse into motion. With a snort, both beasts started off, spurred on faster by a sharp “Yah!” from Arthur.

To his credit, Merlin managed to keep himself conscious enough to hold on for the duration of the hard ride back to the castle—nearly an hour, in fact. At the gate, Arthur paused long enough to send the two posted guards on errands: one to Gaius to inform him of an incoming patient, and the other directly to the castle to inform his wife and Roundtable knights of their required presences at an eminent meeting. Then they continued on, Arthur still leading Merlin’s mare by her reigns. The peasants in the lower town gawked of course, but moved out of the way unprompted. Merlin tried to smile reassuringly at those whom he knew personally, but it came out more like a grimace. Arthur, for his part, remained stony faced, eyes kept straight ahead.

Despite how greatly Arthur wished to accompany Merlin to the physician, he knew that he had a duty as king. Upon arrival at the courtyard, Arthur dismounted and delegated a young, sturdy soldier to deliver his servant to Gaius. He himself made his way to the council chambers, sparing only a glance to his friend, who seemed to be understanding enough.

Somehow the distance calmed him, allowed him to think more freely from his boiling anger and suffocating guilt. Removing oneself from the object of one’s distress often produced that effect.

By the time he arrived at the council room, the rest of the knights had already gathered, awaiting him. He nodded approvingly at them, indicating that they should take a seat. A moment later, Queen Guinevere appeared, cheeks slightly flushed and a bit breathless from her hurry. Arthur received her, and after a quick show of affection directed her to her chair at the round table. The king did not sit.

He tersely explained the situation, what had occurred during the trip. There was alarm, particularly from Gwaine and Gwen, the latter of whom rushed off to help Gaius with her husband’s permission. Arthur urged his knights to gather their armor and weapons swiftly, for they, as he said, had a witch hunt on their hands. His orders were quickly obeyed, without so much an insult from Gwaine.

The next hours were a blur to Arthur: they saddled up and pushed their mounts hard through the forest, hounds yapping excitedly before them. The king directed them to the clearing in which they had set up camp—Arthur sorely regretted choosing the spot; they could have returned to Camelot before sundown easily—and released the dogs so that they might catch an unfamiliar scent. Arthur was well aware that the sorcerer was long gone, but if there was any chance at all that the wretched creature could be caught, he was taking it.

After an extensive, exhausting search, the men were forced to give up. There would be no catching the sorcerer, let alone tracking him. Bitter anger weighed heavily on them as they plodded back to the city, especially so on Sir Gwaine and King Arthur. Together they soundlessly ascended the steps of the physician’s tower, leaving Leon in charge of the report and informing the council of their return.

Before they could so much as knock on the door, however, it swung open to admit them. Gwen smiled warmly at them. “We saw you from the window,” she said ushering them inside.

“How is he?” Arthur asked, brow creased with the oncoming of a headache.

“Didn’t know you cared, Sire,” Merlin piped up from across the room.

Gwaine grinned widely in both relief and amusement, and Merlin mirrored it. Arthur scowled, though inwardly his heart soared at the jibe. “Don’t be ridiculous, _Mer_ lin. I simply have no time to train a new servant.”

Merlin was lying in the patient bed next to the fire, leg propped up by what appeared to be a box laden with a pillow. His burnt arm was heavily wrapped in white linen that starkly contrasted the dark blanket draped over his prostrate body. His head was propped up by a mound of pillows as well, and there was a dull shine to his eyes that bespoke one of Gaius’ tonics. Merlin’s face was greatly bruised, but a lazy smile had remained as Gwaine and Arthur approached the bed.

Arthur tried to think of something to say, some means of apologizing for the suffering he had caused, but suddenly Gaius was upon them. “I am sorry to have to cut the visit short, Sire,” he said, though he didn’t seem at all sorry. “Merlin needs rest, and lots of it. You may return tomorrow, all of you.”

At least it would give the king more time to formulate an apology.


	4. Chapter 4

Ending 3:

Arthur struggled harder than he ever had before against the damned spell that held him, desperately trying to spare the life of his dearest friend. His finger inched slowly, steadily, toward the trigger. Arthur resisted, willed himself to avert his aim, to remove his finger, _anything_ , so that this monstrosity did not occur. He prayed. He cursed. He offered the devil his soul.

But it was over before Arthur could even blink.

With a horrifying _thwack!,_ the bolt was buried deeply into Merlin’s chest.

Merlin, choking on his final breath, went rigid, blue eyes wide and startled. Then he shuddered, a stream of blood dribbling past his lips, and slumped, head lolling back. His empty eyes stared up and past his master, glazing over with that cloud of death with which Arthur was so familiar.

The crossbow fell with a soft thump at Arthur’s feet. In pure shock, the young king dropped to his knees, staring at Merlin—no, Merlin’s _corpse_. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth as though to stifle his cries, but he made no sound. His agony was too great to voice, his chest and throat too constricted to even breathe.

The spell had at last been broken, but Arthur hardly noticed this.

He scooted closer to Merlin on his knees, the trees around him whirling like a demented carousel. “Merlin?” His voice was thick, and came out as a whisper. “No, please…”

Arthur’s hands moved as though to feel for a pulse, but then stopped, hovering over Merlin’s unmoving chest. Trembling fingers grasped the bolt. He pulled, but the infernal thing did not give way.

A hysterical sound escaped the king’s throat.

Then he seemed to return to himself, and tightened his grip on the bolt. With one swift tug, it was removed. Blood immediately welled out of the small hole, staining the blue of Merlin’s shirt a deep purple. Arthur dropped the bolt and pressed his hand over the wound, irrationally hoping that by doing so he could undo the damage that had been done.

No breath entered Merlin’s lungs. His heart beat no more.

He was dead.

Hot tears fell hard and fast from Arthur’s eyes, tears of unspeakable grief. He gathered the young servant into his arms, cradling him as though he were a child. Merlin’s lax body was growing cold, but was not yet stiff with death. Arthur rocked back and forth, hunched over his murdered friend. His sobs could not be contained.

He tried to flatten Merlin’s hair, combed it with his fingers, to make it look less unruly. It didn’t work. Somehow it only made Arthur feel worse.

“Oh, God,” he moaned. “Why? What have I—? Please…!”

No one heeded his cries of pain, his pleas for mercy.

Arthur sat there until the sun had traversed the sky and touched the tops of the trees. His tears had ceased, but only because he had none left to cry. Merlin had long since grown cold in Arthur’s arms. The king had passed his hand over his friend’s eyes, closing his lids to block out the world that had so cruelly wronged them both.

He finally realized that he must move. Not only were people, Gwen and Gaius among them, awaiting their return, but Merlin needed to be prepared for his journey to Avalon. His body would not last until Arthur’s grief abated—nor, he was sure, would his grief ever end.

The king gently laid Merlin down and painstakingly stood. Merlin’s blood stained them both: it coated the silver ringlets of Arthur’s chainmail, dyed his hands. His eyes stung as he looked down at the still and silent young man, so unlike him. Even when Merlin slept, he was always stirring, always mumbling something.

But Merlin was dead. It could hardly be said that he went peacefully.

And for what? Certainly Merlin had done the sorcerer no wrong. Rather, it seemed that the sorcerer only wanted for Arthur to kill someone dear to him, and there was Merlin: ever present. Easy.

Arthur’s face contorted in rage. “I will avenge you,” he said lowly. “I am sorry, Merlin, so very sorry…I shall avenge you…If ‘tis the last thing I do!”

The king knelt at the side of his friend—no, his _brother_ —and gingerly lifted him in his arms. Heart heavier than Merlin, he carried him back to camp. The horses were silent themselves, perhaps sensing the solemnity of the occasion. He laid Merlin down again and moved to retrieve the horses, but then hesitated. Arthur could not return to Camelot, bringing Merlin as he was. Merlin deserved better.

Arthur changed course, went to the place where Merlin had built the self-extinguished fire. The water skins were there still, and these he collected and brought back to Merlin. He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his own shirt (“ _Don’t you know that_ I’m _the one who’ll have to fix that, Sire_?”) and doused it with water.

He cleaned away the blood as best he could, but there was nothing he could do for the bruises, for the deathly gray pallor of Merlin’s skin. He washed the blood from his own hands, though it pained him to do so. It felt as though he were trying to cleanse away his sin. He was doing anything but that.

If it had been anyone else, Arthur would have deemed it an honor to the deceased that he removed his own cloak to use as a shroud. But Merlin was not anyone else. Merlin was…Merlin. And he was dead by Arthur’s hands. He was sure that if he had just tried _harder_ , had just not been enchanted in the first place, then Merlin would not have been hurt. Not have been killed.

Swallowing convulsively, Arthur wrapped the crimson material around the body, careful that it was not too tight. He hesitated to cover the young man’s face. A single tear slipped down his cheek as he looked upon Merlin.

“I am sorry,” he whispered brokenly. Arthur bent forward and placed a tender, brotherly kiss on Merlin’s brow, then laid the makeshift shroud over Merlin’s face. It was all too easy to imagine then that it was not Merlin lying there, but some faceless soldier who had died in the line of duty. Merlin was back in Camelot, assisting Gaius as he pottered about the apothecary. It was the only thing that made sense.

Arthur ever so carefully hoisted the body onto the saddle of Merlin’s mare, then mounted his own, keeping his eyes determinedly forward. He sat rigidly, leading Merlin’s horse by her reigns.

 _Not Merlin,_ he thought. _Not Merlin. Not Merlin. Not Merlin._

But it _was_ Merlin who was dead.

And ‘twas magic that had caused it. Magic was evil, just as his father had always said. Magic must be destroyed at all cost. (“ _There can be no place for magic in Camelot_.”)

By the time Arthur had returned to Camelot with his best friend’s body, his heart was as hardened as his father’s once was.


End file.
